Genevieve Arthur was a tomboy. She hated the names Genevieve and Jenny, so she insisted on being called ‘Vivie’ which someone told her meant ‘li...e’ or ‘live.’ She didn’t much care as long as it wasn’t one of the hated names.Shortly after her eleventh birthday, the pink nubs on her chest became sensitive and began to grow. It wasn’t so bad at first, because it was a very cold winter. Her new curves were hidden by the necessary heavy shirts, sweaters, and coats; but with the coming of spring,. I was close to whimpering from fear. The decision to come here wasborn of a misplaced sense of bravery that, in the absence of warmth,sunshine and friendly voices, had disappeared, like mist blown away bya cold breeze. Why did I come?I forced myself to stand and look around the rest of the library, andit was empty. I didn't know whether to be relieved by that, or to bemore scared.The high-vaulted ceiling gave the room an echoing kind of feeling. Thefluorescents, hanging down from the ceiling. More

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